


praise poison

by orphan_account



Category: Megadeth, Metallica
Genre: 1980s, Angst, Implied/Referenced Dub-con, Injury, when i build my time machine i'm going back to give david scott mustaine a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It wasn’t exactly a good year for anybody, least of all Dave.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	praise poison

**Author's Note:**

> * **TW** for implied dubcon and injury related to assault.
> 
> bonus:  
> [Top 10 Images That Will Make You Cry](https://i.redd.it/eq13izlfls511.png)

1981\. 

It wasn’t exactly a good year for anybody, least of all Dave. The air in LA was claustrophobic. The people were vapid. The smell of suntan lotion hung in the air like a second smog.

Selling pot was going nowhere, so he tried LSD, which was a flop, and then prescription opiates, which nearly got him tripped up with the police, and then coke, which went right back up his nose.

No luck. No job. No groceries. No rent money.

He sold his dogs two months ago because he couldn't feed them, either. He doesn't think he’ll ever forget the feeling of loading them into a stranger’s truck and watching it drive off.

They were good dogs.

The landlord was rough with him yesterday — too rough. The way people get when they know they’ll get away with it. Punishment, Dave supposes, for being late on payment for the fifth time in a row. He had limped and wheezed his way back upstairs afterwards and barely made it to the shower.

When James comes calling the next afternoon, Dave doesn't answer the door. His hips hurt too much to walk and his insides feel like they’re on fire. For a moment after the sound stops, he prays James will just go away.

More knocking.

No luck.

“Dave?” the voice calls from outside, painfully uncertain. “You home, dude? It’s James. Uh, Hetfield. You said to come over today so we could, uh…”

_Work on the song._

Right.

Dave swallows hard and weakly yells back, “Coming, gimme a sec.”

Another bolt of pain jerks up his spine when he swings his legs over the side of the couch and presses up into a standing position, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. He winces and shuffles his way to the door.

James is waiting there when he slides back the deadbolt and peers out the crack, wearing a Motörhead t-shirt and ballcap shoved backwards over his fluffy mass of hair. He meets Dave’s eye with an awkward, pimple-faced half-smile. “Uh, hey. Sorry. I just—” he holds up a tattered notebook. “You said, so…”

“Yeah,” Dave says after a second. His throat feels like sandpaper. “Yeah, right, uh— Y’know, maybe now's not the best time, man, I’m not feeling too well.”

“Yeah, uh, you don't look too good,” James says, peering at him, no doubtedly taking in the red skin of his eyes and nose, the scrape on his cheekbone disappearing over the line of his jaw. He squints. “You okay, dude?”

Dave waves a hand, hair falling over his face as he directs his gaze down to his bare feet. He feels like kind of an asshole for making the kid travel all this way. “Yeah, I’m— Yeah. Just a bit banged up. It’s fine. Sorry.” He shrugs, hesitating, then pulls the door open in invitation. “You can come in, if you want.”

“Okay,” James says with an uncomfortable laugh, hesitantly stepping inside. “Uh, my truck’s in the shop, so I had to I take the bus here. It’s kind of a long ways.”

“Right,” Dave says. The door swings closed. 

“Right,” James echoes, looking around. "So, d'you wanna just get your guitar and play around, or…?”

Dave looks over at his Rich Bich, faithfully perched in the corner. He feels a riff twitching at his fingers — a little segment that had come to him a couple nights back, one he had wanted to bring to practice — but when he crosses the room and bends to retrieve the instrument, the muscles of his back ripple in a spasm of revolt against the effort.

It’s like fire licking up his muscles. He grits his teeth on a groan. “You can if you want,” he says, stiffly handing it to James instead.

James accepts the guitar warily, as if he's never held one before. “Oh,” he says. “Uh, okay. Sure. I mean, I would’ve brought mine, but…” he trails off.

“But the bus,” Dave concludes. He resumes his spot on the couch, withholding a grimace. “So? Show me what you got.”

“Well, uh, it’s mostly just a few lyrics,” James shifts, holding the guitar more securely. “You said you had some riffs you came up with, so I thought maybe we could just start there and…”

Dave says sure, and makes no move to do anything. James hesitates first a long, uncertain moment, then sits down on the couch beside him; gingerly, as though he’s expecting the dirty red cushions will collapse under his ass and suck him in. He opens the notebook and passes it to Dave with flushed cheeks.

He starts timidly noodling over the strings a bit as Dave scans over the scribbled words. Blah blah blah. Something about fire, death, and destruction. The usual. Things James seems comfortable with. Things that sound good being screamed.

Beside him, James clears his throat. “So, uh, I was thinking we could do something like…”

It’s not really a productive afternoon. Not as productive as it could have been, anyway, with Dave slumped listlessly into the couch and offering minimal advice.

“Maybe we should call it a day,” he finally suggests around three. The headache behind his eyes is beginning to pulse in tandem with the waves of nausea rolling in his stomach.

James looks visibly disheartened. “Okay,” he agrees anyways. “Um, that’s fine. I guess I’ll just... Go, then.”

He flips his notebook closed and gets up. Dave watches as he respectfully places the guitar back in the corner.

“I could make food,” he offers quietly. “If you want. Since you came all the way out here

_for nothing_

__and we didn't get much done.”_ _

__“Oh,” James says. He pauses for a second, looking torn between being polite and getting the hell out. “Uh, okay. I mean, sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”_ _

__Dave nods and gets to his feet, ignoring the deep pang of ache that crawls through his hips as he shuffles past James and over to the stove._ _

__The preparations for lunch are done in short order and a pervasively awkward, uneasy brand of silence. James isn't good at small talk, and neither is Dave. The only sounds between them are the clanking of the pan and the faucet running as Dave boils water for box macaroni._ _

__James’ hair looks golden in the afternoon light. His nose is round, cheeks red and irritated with acne. The set of his chin is solemn as he looks around Dave’s apartment._ _

__“I, uh. I like your place,” he finally offers._ _

__Dave grunts. “It’s okay. Be a lot nicer if my water didn't get shut off every two weeks.” At James questioning look, he adds, “Landlord’s a cunt.”_ _

__James nods in understanding. He motions to the shelf beside Dave’s guitar — “Mind if I check out your vinyl?”_ _

__“Knock yourself out.”_ _

__James wanders over to flip through his collection. The silence falls back over them as the water starts to boil, Dave watching drops of condensation form on the underside of the cabinet above the stove. He absently dumps the noodles in._ _

__“Ron said you live with your brother,” he says, not turning around._ _

__There's a pause. “Yeah,” James replies, “In Brea.”_ _

__Dave stirs the noodles. “‘S’it nice?”_ _

__“I guess,” James says. “Not that much to do, but I hang around with him and Lars a lot, so. We have fun.”_ _

__“Right,” Dave says. He keeps stirring, watching the noodles drift around in the roiling water._ _

__A few are still undercooked when he clumsily dumps the water out, but Dave just adds the powdered cheese flavour anyways. His milk went bad a few days back, so extra water it is._ _

__It looks kind of dry, Dave thinks, prodding at the macaroni as James comes padding back over. Kind of clumpy. Not incredibly appetizing, but it’s all he has left. He sets the pot down on the counter and turns to get bowls from the cupboard, shirt lifting slightly._ _

__James reaches out. He’s closer than Dave expects; quicker than he can react. “What’s—”_ _

__There. Behind him. Fingers at his back, lifting up his shirt, blue eyes flicking over the scratches wrapped around his hips and dipping below his waistband, the bruises on his ribs, the irritated skin where he’d tried to wash it all off._ _

__“Jesus,” James says, at the same moment Dave’s vision whites out in panic._ _

__“What the fuck, man,” he snarls, reflexively twisting around to shove James backwards. “Don't fucking touch me!”_ _

__James stumbles, his skinny ass colliding with the fridge. He doesn't meet Dave’s eyes. “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, I just thought—”_ _

__He freezes. Trapped._ _

__Dave’s hackles are up. “You thought what,” he snarls._ _

__There's a pause. A dog barks outside. When James does look up, his eyes are nervous._ _

_cocksucker_

__“Nothing.”_ _

__Dave’s heart is beating fast and panicked, cheeks flushed bright red. He opens his mouth to say more, threaten more, start yelling, but a stabbing twinge runs through his guts and he says nothing at all — just grabs the counter and breathes, glowering at James._ _

__“Fuck,” James mumbles. “It’s your business, man, I wouldn't—… But Jesus, Dave. You're in really bad shape.”_ _

__“It was an accident,” Dave says. “I got in a fight.”_ _

__James’ brow creases. “Who—”_ _

_wouldhurtyoulikethat_

__“Doesn't fucking matter. Mind your own business.”_ _

__There's more silence._ _

__“I won’t tell anyone,” James says carefully. Uneasily._ _

__“No,” Dave says, “You won't.”_ _

__

__James leaves. Takes the bus home again, probably. Dave doesn’t ask, and Dave doesn’t care. What Dave does do is limp down to the corner store and buy a bottle of cough syrup, guzzle three times the recommended dose and knock himself out for eight hours._ _

__It just hurts worse when he wakes up. He tries to stumble to the phone_ _

_who you gonna call?_

__and doesn't make it; his left foot slides out from under him and he goes down hard on his hip, all the breath in his lungs forced out in one sudden cry of nauseating pain._ _

__He doesn't get back up. The linoleum is tacky beneath his cheek, snot and tears mixing with the grime. Dave shudders and curls in on himself._ _

__Pathetic, really. There he is, at twenty years old: wannabe drug-dealer, wannabe-guitarist, bleeding out of his asshole as he cries on the kitchen floor._ _

__Tough guy. Little kid. Nothing special. All alone in a big wide world that wants to fucking rip him apart._ _

__

__

__James never did tell anyone, though._ _

__

__

__

+

__


End file.
